


and the rocks will melt with the sun

by xerampelinae



Series: my love is like a red, red rose [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drinking, Families of Choice, Grief/Mourning, Interlude, M/M, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 09:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerampelinae/pseuds/xerampelinae
Summary: “We’re what’s left of the old guard,” Aidan says, gesturing about. “Knew him at least from his firefighting days, if not earlier. How about you, kid? What’s your story--he save your life way back when?”“You could say that,” the man says. His demeanor is restrained and unsure, but he’s trying. Someone used to taking up space that others don’t necessarily want to share.“Go on then,” Kit says, “go ahead and tell it, even if it’s a sad one.”-In a bar in a desert, an Irish wake is held for a firefighter.





	and the rocks will melt with the sun

The bar is a sober place--a table-full of grizzled folk, younger than they look but aged by those lost and buried--not yet deep into the first bottle of whiskey. Three of them have made it tonight, with a space left open for the one being mourned.

“God, I can’t believe they finally found him,” Aidan says. “What kind of place--what was he doing out there? In some fucking cave with fucking weird hieroglyphics?”

“Fuck if we’ll ever know,” Kit says, sighing gustily as she plays with her shot glass and watches the liquid move inside it. 

The bar door opens for a moment, and then shuts again. Automatically they all look--first responders’ instincts, second to choosing a table where the line of sight is best--and see a stranger, young and dressed in civilian clothes. The quick and dirty guess (which is the most likely option) is that this is another officer visiting or transferring to the local Garrison base and exploring the local watering holes. But there’s something familiar about his face. The table quiets as he approaches.

“Is this the table for Keenan ‘Babyhands’ Kogane?” the man asks.

The question takes a long moment to sink in, then the table rocks with laughter.

“Sure is,” Simu says, “why don’t you pull up a chair and join us, kid?”

The man nods stiffly, pulling up a chair beside the one left empty. A shot glass appears and is filled up before him. He’s what a younger crowd would call pretty more than handsome, and svelte. He has fingerless gloves on; someone who works with his hands and has his fingers covered in calluses and tiny scars in the way that few people have these days. There are bigger scars, too, one arcing up his neck and cheek to end worryingly close to the inner corner of his eye, and one that must cross one clavicle and cuts painfully along his shoulder; that one is broad and painful-looking, only appearing when the loose neckline of his shirt shifts.

There’s something paradoxically timeless and ancient about this young stranger; he looks like a young soldier on the tail end of a war, but he hasn’t grown old and grizzled like the rest of them. Not yet.

“We’re what’s left of the old guard,” Aidan says, gesturing about. “Knew him at least from his firefighting days, if not earlier. How about you, kid? What’s your story--he save your life way back when?”

“You could say that,” the man says. His demeanor is restrained and unsure, but he’s trying. Someone used to taking up space that others don’t necessarily want to share.

“Go on then,” Kit says, “go ahead and tell it, even if it’s a sad one.”

Immediately, she tips back another swallow of whiskey, eyes shining as she reaches for the bottle to top up her glass and all the others at the table. Then she settles back and waits.

“I was born out in the desert,” the young man says, shifting in his seat like he might nod in the right direction, like he can actually tell from within the dark bar. And the thing is, somehow it seems like he’d be right. “Far out. Away from a lot of things. And when my mother went into labor, he was the only one who could come.”

“You were one of the ones he delivered?” Aidan says, sitting up. “Christ, has it really been that long? You’ve grown up.”

The young man laughs a little, slender face softening. “I’m the reason he was called ‘Babyhands.’ I was the first.”

“You’re shitting me,” Kit says, as the others clamor and remember.

“Sarge as my witness,” the young man says.

“Keith?” Simu says, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. So many years before, he had been Keenan Kogane’s training partner, had been his closest friend in an ambulance. Had held his new infant, his toddling son, marvelled at the way children so young grow so quickly. Had looked for Keith too, when Keenan had never come in or called into his shift and all that was left of his home was rubble and the workshop he’d thrown up one spring. Had wept for him, especially after Keenan’s remains were finally found, for the small child who very well could have been lost to another lonely and forgotten grave. “Where--where’ve you been? We never stopped looking.”

Keith swirls his drink uncomfortably. “It’s a long story, but. I was out in the black, trying to keep what happened that night from repeating.”

“Christ,” Aidan says. “You were so young. Even now--God, you’re younger than we were, when they sent us off to fight.”

“The stars were falling,” Keith says distractedly, “that night. It must have been a meteor shower. Was it the Perseids?”

“No,” Kit says. “It was the Orionids. Your old man was off because it was your birthday, so he wanted to spend time with you. Did it every year.”

“Oh,” Keith says. “I couldn’t remember. But that’s why. We didn’t notice the ships because of the meteors. It was the first one--the second one, he’s the one that buried my dad and took care of me after.”

“Keith,” Simu says, tone strained, “did you get alien abducted all those years ago?”

“Well, not quite,” Keith says.

The table is quiet for a long moment, and then Kit tips back her whiskey again. “I don’t understand how that works,” she says, “but I would like to.”

“He’s kind of like my mom’s relative?” Keith says, face screwing up as he thinks over his words and swirling his drink thoughtfully. “It, uh, turns out my mom’s some kind of alien rebel warrior.”

Aidan sighs, long and low. “Friends, I think it’s finally happened after all these years. I’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“No,” Kit says, with Simu nodding beside her, “I’m hearing it too.”

Ruffling his hand through hair that’s getting too long, Aidan stares blankly at the bottle of whiskey. Idly, Keith lets his finger circle the rim of his glass.

“How’d you come back?” Simu asks.

Keith’s hands still, and he pauses as the bar door opens once more, this time admitting a silver-haired man who looks like a man who hasn’t worn anything besides his uniform for too long. “That’s another long story,” Keith says, mouth quirking wryly as he meets the newcomer’s gaze, “but the short of it is that I joined the Voltron coalition.”

Simu may have compunctions about staring at strangers, but Aidan and Kit do not. Somehow this newcomer is more distracting than Keith’s story--perhaps they are all intertwined in some unexpected way--maybe because of the way Keith interacts with him even as he speaks.

“That your buddy?” Kit says, staring openly. “He can join us, just has to pull up a chair.”

“Do we know him?” Aidan asks. “He looks familiar.”

Laughing a little under his breath, Keith nods at the newcomer who makes his approach. Rather than shift his chair over to make room for another, Keith settles on one side invitingly; the man accepts, looking somehow larger than life as he lowers what might be two hundred pounds of idealized proportion and musculature onto half a bar chair. As easy as breathing, he lifts his arm and settles it over Keith’s shoulders to pull him close and steady.

“Hi,” he says, “I’m Shiro.”

“Kit Kwon,” she says, shaking Shiro’s hand firmly. He has a strong but careful grip, prosthesis cool and firm in hand, and what must be a body full of scars inside and out. No wonder his hair has turned from what must have been night-dark to moon-bright, Kit thinks, and maybe that’s too much whiskey if she’s getting all maudlin and poetic about meeting a handsome young stranger fresh home from the war. “Aidan Ilen, and Simu Wu. We’re what’s left of the old guard that ran with Keith’s dad and was able to make it out tonight.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Shiro says, smiling politely.

Before Shiro can say anything more, Simu finds himself interrupting. “By ‘Shiro’ you don’t mean Takashi Shirogane from the Persephone I mission? Because your face is wildly and weirdly familiar.”

“No way--” Aidan says. “That ship went down, all hands lost--”

“Actually,” Shiro says, somewhat bashfully, “That would be me. We, uh, did not die. None of us did.”

“If you boys have come back from the black after all these years, how’re you tied up with Voltron?” Kit asks.

Keith and Shiro exchange a look; Shiro somewhat bashful, Keith more nonchalant. “Shiro’s the head of Voltron,” Keith confesses.

Before Aidan and Kit can do more than drop their jaws, Shiro’s speaking, beaming with pride. “And Keith’s the right arm.”

“You’re--” Simu says. “You’re paladins of Voltron?”

Keith and Shiro nod, Shiro squeezing Keith’s shoulder fondly. Kit and Aidan stare for a long moment, then cheer raucously together--the shock of it is startling, and for a moment Shiro sweeps Keith protectively back; Keith’s hand, set below the table, flexes and summons forth his bayard, untransformed. The old ones notice the rise in tension as well as they can, so many drinks into the evening, and soften their words.

Carefully, softly laughing, Simu shakes his head. “Your old man would be proud of you.”

His words are effective in easing the tension and Keith’s voice is soft when he speaks in turn. “Do you really think so?”

“Sure as we can be of anything,” Simu says. “You made it back this far, alive and strong. Forget fancy alien business, he had as many years with you as he could buy. Some of us just--didn’t make it to old age. You were always deep-rooted in his heart, and you’re more alike than you realize.”

“Not to say that what you do for Voltron isn’t good,” Kit says, laughing wryly. “We’ve heard stories down the pipeline. Anyways, you can trust what Simu says. Sometimes seemed like he and your dad were operating off the same frequency when they were together.”

“It’s been so long,” Keith admits in a low voice. “I feel like I’ve forgotten what he looked like, what he sounded like. The way he told stories.”

At this Aidan snorts ungainfully. “Don’t you worry about that, Keith,” he says. “Between the three of us, I’d say we have all of the old groupchat archive saved. Here--”

As Aidan sets his phone down on the table, turning it to face Shiro and Keith, a picture pops up from the gallery: a tall man, shirtless, carefully cradling a baby. His face is caught between shock and laughter; it shouldn’t be a flattering photo, but it is incredibly endearing.

“Why is that baby naked?” Keith says. Beside him, Shiro tucks a grin into his fist, shaking with laughter.

Aidan snorts, so loud that he starts laughing a little. “Because you needed a bath, and your mom must have already been gone by then because I was there keeping your old man company and providing adult conversation.”

Keith blushes, warming his cheeks and softening his face until he looks as young as he actually is.

“Wait,” Aidan says. “There’s more.”

He reaches out and taps the screen once, and then there’s motion. Keenan Kogane shifts back and forth, laughing gruffly but freely as the baby in his arm grumbles argumentatively. Ten seconds of easy laughter, and then the video comes to a stop.

“Oh.” Keith’s eyes are wide and shining, hand raised like he might be able to reach out and touch his father through this captured moment.

“We’ll get you the whole archive,” Simu says kindly.

-

Eventually it hits closing time, and reluctantly they relinquish the table, returning borrowed chairs here and there. Kit and Aidan chatter drunkenly with Shiro, leading the charge into the cool desert air as they wait for their ride home.

“Thank you for coming home again, Keith,” Simu says, clapping his shoulder. “It’s good to see you well, and to know some measure of what happened that night--”

“It was--” Keith says, but his eyes are shining and sad again as he looks away. 

“It’s alright,” Simu says gently, understandingly. “It’s clear there are things that you’ve survived or are surviving now. Some things, we just carry them with us. I just hope you can find some way to lay them down eventually, or let someone help carry the weight. Like your young man. Even if you don’t stay here long, take that with you. That’s what’s important to do. Otherwise it’ll all just pull you down until you drown.”

“He does help,” Keith says quietly. Earnest. He was the same as a child, Simu thinks. “It’s better when we’re together. For both of us.”

When Keith looks up, Simu meets his gaze with a smile. “That’s good, kid. You take care of each other--it’s a strange universe out there.”

“We do,” Keith says, smiling softly back. His eyes flick up and away, doubtless meeting Shiro’s on the other side of the parking lot. “We do.”

-

Under the lamplight overhead, Simu sighs and tips his head back where he sits, waiting for his college student nephew (pre-bribed with fresh mochi) drives them home. In the mirror Shiro and Keith are visible, standing close together by a glossy red bike of some sporty make. _Close as lovers,_ Simu thinks, and then they sway close together.

Shiro’s fingers slide into the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck, cradling as Keith tips his head back. Simu laughs and slides his gaze forward, shaking his head.

“What’s wrong, uncle?”

“Nothing,” Simu says, laughing helplessly. His heart feels lighter, after so many years spent searching and waiting. “Nothing at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> looks like this will be a 3 part series now.
> 
> i am also on twitter @belovedbacon


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